


Wednesday

by sunlitroses



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Gen, History, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlitroses/pseuds/sunlitroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally, if such a word could be applied to any aspect of her life, Dr. Helen Magnus rather enjoyed having her Old Friend deliver a tea service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Pax Romana and before Awakening; other than that, the timing is a little vague.

            Normally, if such a word could be applied to any aspect of her life, Dr. Helen Magnus rather enjoyed having her Old Friend deliver a tea service. He had an almost uncanny ability to predict not only when she was in most need of a cup, but also exactly what type of tea would be optimal. A bracing cup of Assam on a morning when even her reserves and unique physiology didn’t quite make up for the missed hours of sleep she couldn’t afford. A pot of fragrant Jasmine when her responsibilities were piling up almost too much and strangling the next person who raised a question was becoming a workable solution. A celebratory, spicy Chai blend when everything inexplicably worked just right for an entire day. White flowery Pekoe – and where _had_ he found it? – on that one day when Will had absented himself for a conference earlier in the week, Henry had ‘modified’ the Sanctuary systems into a blackout, Kate had somehow (Helen had decidedly not asked) shot herself in the foot, and the _Kitapholus drocena_ had escaped. She really did need to get that back to Tokyo. Preferably before she was forced to chase after it again through the dark, cold Sanctuary halls aided by a limping woman she was reluctant to trust at her back with another gun and Henry’s panicked voice assuring her that ‘Those containment systems will be back on line real soon. Any time now. Ish.’

            Today, however, was not normal. Helen admitted this, to herself at least, as she watched the kettle slowly fill with filtered water from the kitchen faucet.

 

 

            Wednesday had begun peaceably enough, striding to her office through the still-quiet and dim halls from her bedroom. Helen convinced herself that her brief nap – and how long had it been since she had truly slept, the kind of sleep you wake up from in a slowly dissipating fog, feeling bone-deep rested? – was sufficient for her needs as she opened the office door.

            For many, many years this had been Helen’s office, her workspace, her retreat, her war room when needs required, where she had seen Henry’s eyes light upon what was to be the first of many destroyed electronics, where she had offered a (then) new friend a place in her home, and where she and James had reminisced and plotted. The Sanctuary was her home, but this room was more an extension of herself than a room and Helen observed it with fondness from the doorway. Soft light filtered in through the windows, the beginnings of dawn splashing over her desk highlighting last nights leftover piles of books and the ledger still askew on the corner. New, however, was the gently steaming cup set squarely before the chair, the delicate blue pattern a match to the tea service resting on the low table before the couch. Her Old Friend at his magic again.

            Helen walked over and slipped her finger through the handle to raise the cup to her nose. Rich, fruity, and warm it rolled over her, a scent so vivid she could almost taste it from the air alone. Hibiscis. She carefully set the cup back down and regarded the stacks of books speculatively. She really ought to return them to the library.

 

 

            Ah, her library. Even in her thoughts, Helen could hear a ring of self-satisfaction in those syllables. Well, her thoughts probably had some right to that she conceded, fitting the lid onto the kettle and settling it on a burner. Twisting the dial and listening to the _click-click-click-whoosh_ of the gas catching, Helen permitted herself a smile, recalling the day she finally settled the last box of books into place.

          Years of steady attrition, combined with her father’s own extensive collection, had resulted in an impressive accumulation of volumes. The new Sanctuary team had certainly made their opinion of the admittedly Herculean task quite clear and she remembered herding them through those long, long days and near mutiny on sheer will power and tea alone. The result, though, in her opinion had been more than worth every effort. That first morning with the last box cleared away and her grumbling staff passed out in the makeshift bedrooms still hit-or-miss on proper furniture, Helen had stood with the library doors firmly closed behind her and unrepentantly gloated. Every volume she might need right at her fingertips, not in a secure storage cell in the wrong city or country, here, living side by side with the work they influenced.

          An identical smile ghosted over her features as Helen watched the flames dance up to kiss the bottom of the kettle. How many nights – and days, when they all began to run together – had she stood here in an unpolished version of this very room brewing up what young Samson had jokingly referred to as the ‘fuel’ behind this building? In retrospect, she had probably micromanaged to a ridiculous degree, but this one, this time, this _building_ was personal. The London Sanctuary had been equal parts the British government and The Five, the other world Sanctuaries established and to come would always be at least partially, and more often mostly, someone else’s home and work. This Sanctuary was to be _hers_.

          So it had proved in time as the building took shape around her, Helen thought as the kettle began to intermittently steam. Library and all.

 

 

          When Helen had entered the library early that morning, however, it scarcely seemed the same place as it had all those years ago. A fact based less upon the wear of ages and the steady accumulation of volumes, than on the enormous holographic city sprawled through the open center.

          “Nikola!” the yell was less question and more statement, as Helen knew that her wiry friend had to be lurking somewhere in the vicinity. He had practically taken to living in the library, studying the map as though he thought to still learn all the secrets of Praxus despite his being forbidden to enter the city. Either that or he was frantically searching for a way past the city’s protections, an alternate theory that she vigorously hoped was ridiculous. Hoped, while also busily preparing safe guards against the possibility knowing, as she did, what Will termed Nikola’s ‘mad scientist reaction to the idea of the impossible’ and she deemed simply his inability to accept the word ‘no.’

          “Helen!” said the suspiciously chipper man in question, stepping out from behind the tall building representing, if she recalled correctly, the central installation of the city. Helen was fairly certain as to its identity; places where one is killed tended to stick in the mind. “However may I assist you this fine morning?”

          Definitely too chipper. “You could give me my library back,” Helen stated, stepping around a city block to reach a burstingly full book cart, “Preferably before I have to mount an expedition to find the bottom of these carts.”

          “Now Helen, not all of us had the opportunity to study first hand an ancient city whose inhabitants are technologically light years ahead of this paltry century. Some of us had to stay behind to monitor readings that went dead within five minutes due to the inability of your coterie of half-wits to remain standing upright. Some of us had to remain behind and watch an increasing number of unappreciative buffoons journey to a destination that makes even my – my! – admittedly brilliant inventions look like schoolboy science experiments,” Nikola sidled up to her, smiling wickedly, “Some might almost say that you ought to be endeavoring to make it up to that someone.”

          Something was off about the ground level of the library; something apart from the map. Helen answered Nikola absently, “As one has demolished my wine cellar, terrorized my staff, cannibalized half my systems for parts, monopolized my library, and allowed Adam to waltz out the door, one had better not say anything of the sort.”

          “I hardly allowed Worth to ‘waltz’ anywhere,” Nikola responded quickly, in an affectedly insulted tone, “He was firmly in hand last I saw him – popping off to a scientific Mecca that he had already visited, unlike those of us continually left in the dust. What John did with him after that is hardly my fault. I did offer to go with them.”

          “Hmm,” Helen racked her memory. Nikola could hardly have moved the shelves built into the walls and the tables seemed in approximately the same locations, the study corrals seemed normal as well, except for… “Nikola, what did you do to the eastern corner?”

          “What?” Nikola switched trains of thought roughly, “Ah, yes, the furniture there was in my way of achieving a good perspective on the outskirts of the city. That is, gaining a view of how the city might appear from a distance for those of us not lucky enough to actually visit the city in question,” he finished hurriedly.

          Helen ignored the obvious lie and indirect confirmation of her fears to focus on the issue at hand, “Put it back.”

          Nikola looked puzzled, “Must I? It’s such a good view and all I moved was one desk, smallish, and hardly suited to you. Not to mention in the fiction section – waste of good paper, that.”

          “This is still MY library,” Helen rounded on the startled man, with all humor gone from her expression. She stalked past him to deactivate the map on the center table, tucking the paperweight and book under an arm she turned back to face him, “I want it back to normal in an hour, Nikola. All of it. Move!”

          Helen thought he’d actually jumped as she strode from the room, off to hide her armload in two separate, secure locations and to warn Henry to step up the ‘Tesla preparations.’

 

 

          The whistling of the kettle pulled Helen back to the present as she moved to turn the burner off and reach for the handle of the kettle simultaneously. Clearly a little startlement was what Nikola needed, she reflected, adding a small amount of water from the kettle to the teapot. When she had stopped by the library later, all signs of the ‘Tesla invasion,’ per Kate’s words, had disappeared so thoroughly it would appear that they had never existed at all - apart from the book carts, of course, and the lingering collective headache of the Sanctuary staff. But then, Helen supposed as she fit the lid onto the teapot and began a comforting swishing motion, it didn’t do to raise one’s hopes too high. From the looks of the basic outline she had received from Henry regarding his preparations, it was clear that he at least was certainly not raising his hopes from their entrenchment deep underground. She wished that he had not been so firmly barricaded in his room when she had stopped by with her warning. A brief, largely one-sided conversation through a door was hardly satisfying, but, Helen sighed as a touch to the side of the teapot indicated that it was warm, she was hardly going to break down the door when Henry so clearly desired privacy. Well, not yet, anyway.

 

 

          Heading away from Henry’s door after a productive, but highly unsatisfactory, conversation concerning Nikola and the odds of Henry joining the rest of the staff sometime in the near future, Helen all but ran into Kate.

          “Whoa! Sorry, Boss,” Kate said, backing up a few paces and looking up at her with a decidedly cheeky grin.

          “No, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, gracefully accepting the situation, before eyeing the grin, “Where are you going in such a hurry, dare I ask?”

          “The armory,” Kate shrugged, “I got an email from Hank saying there was something I needed to test. Probably for when Skinny in your library makes a dash underground.”

          “Skinny?” Helen raised an eyebrow.

          “Well, he is,” Kate defended with the same smirk, “The guy needs to add some protein to his diet.”

          “I dare say he has forgotten such requirements,” she tried not to look pensive, “It’s been a long time since he needed to keep track of meals; not that he was very good at it back then, either,” she added absently, remembering multiple occasions of slipping Nikola into the kitchen behind her father’s back to stuff him full of whatever was on hand after he had performed a disappearing act and completely neglected himself for days on end. She shook herself out of the reverie.

          “Don’t let me keep you,” she made to move around Kate.

          “Actually, you wanna come?” Kate ducked her head slightly as Helen turned back to look at her, “I mean, you’ll know better than me if they have a hope of stopping him.”

          “I’m afraid I can’t today,” Helen tried to smile, touched to be asked by her generally standoffish employee, yet unwilling to tour the armory level, “But let me know if you’re dubious after testing and I’ll take a look tomorrow.”

          “Will do,” Kate gave her one last grin before jaunting off down the hall once more.

 

 

          She had come so far from the suspicious felon who had waltzed into the Sanctuary over a year ago and refused to leave. Helen smiled. Though luckily not completely changed if the rumors of the argument she had instigated with Henry through his door were to be believed. Teapot warmed, she stretched to the top of a certain set of shelves, hooking a jar down, which yielded a heaping mass of tea leaves. She kept count as she spooned them out: one per cup and one for the pot, learned so long ago. Measuring complete, she gently poured the rest of the water over the leaves and settled the lid on snugly. Helen rested the teapot on the waiting tray to steep, before heading back to the cupboard to collect a cup. As she was searching for the matching saucer, her cell phone chirped where it was laid on the counter. With a sigh and a twitch of her lips, she paused to look at the incoming message. The sender was no surprise; Will had all but hounded her, day long. She set the cell on the tray as well, before adding two cups and (matching) saucers. One would look too lonely, by itself. She took a last look over the tray – everything secure, milk and sugar, serviette – before picking it up and exiting the kitchen.

 

 

          Earlier, she had been headed in the opposite direction, towards this section of the house and away from Kate, when her cell had chimed for the sixth time since noon. Clearly, Will was following through on his threat to text her every detail of his day until she responded to him. Checking the screen, she read:

                               _Have discovered that previous definitions of slime = inadequate._

          Tucking it back into her pocket with a small smile, Helen continued on her way. It wouldn’t take much of a response to stop him, that she knew; he had indicated a willingness to accept any communication as a cease and desist letter. But the texts were not annoying, however they were intended, and it almost made up for being forced to send him to New York for the week. Besides, if he wanted her to respond, Helen considered with a smirk, he should stop being such delightful entertainment.

 

 

            At five minutes, trek through the darkening and blessedly quiet Sanctuary over, Helen carefully lifted the teapot and poured a thin stream of dark golden tea into a cup. Settling the still steaming pot onto the tray once more, she rested back against the chair ideally situated before the window in her suite. A long time ago, another lifetime it seemed most days, she had set this small table here after determining that breakfast in bed was exceedingly unhygienic. She picked up cup and saucer, closing her eyes as the rich scent perfumed the air. Roses in bloom, heavy and sweet. Another lifetime flashed before her eyes.

 

            “Mommy, what is it? It smells so pretty! Can I try it?”

            “Rosebud tea, love. You can have some when you’re older. For now, I believe you’ll prefer this one.”

            “Umm, it smells like… berries? And fruit! What is it?”

            “Hibiscis. It’s a lovely color, isn’t it?”

            “Red. My favorite!”

 

            Helen opened her eyes wide, banishing the images and set the cup back down. Perhaps this was not her best idea. The scent had pervaded the room by then, however, and she couldn’t stop memory after memory from washing over her senses.

 

            “This is what I always thought tea should taste like; not that other strong sludge you drink.”

            “Watch your tongue! The blend is hardly ‘sludge,’ it’s delightful and much more invigorating than that dreadful coffee you’re so fond of in the mornings.”

            “Mom, seriously, it could strip paint off the walls. This, though, this is different.  Elegant.”

            “At least I know your senses are not completely impaired.”

 

            Helen pushed the tea service further away.

 

            “See, this is totally British.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Your antidote for a broken heart involves tea, Mom. It’s very… traditional.”

            “Is it broken, love?”

            “Ah. Well. I don’t know.”

            “Hm.”

            “Maybe not.”

            “Well, that’s promising.”

            “He certainly didn’t deserve this tea.”

 

            Pulled out of the deluge by another chime from her cell phone, Helen reached to turn it off before dropping her head into her hands. They sky outside deepened from twilight to true night, but she made no movement to turn on the lights.

 

 

            It was on a Wednesday this year.


End file.
